


hardcore (what exactly do you do for an encore?)

by MontanaHarper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Fingerfucking, First Time, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pre-Series, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-26
Updated: 2009-04-26
Packaged: 2017-10-02 08:27:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/MontanaHarper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Dean propped his beer against his thigh and held out a hand toward Sam, grinning. "So how about you hand over the remote and let me enjoy my recuperation, bitch?"</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	hardcore (what exactly do you do for an encore?)

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the song "This Is Hardcore" by Pulp.
> 
> I started this ages ago (over a year and a half, in fact), but I was inspired by [](http://merihn.livejournal.com/profile?mode=fullprofile)[**merihn**](http://merihn.livejournal.com/)'s [](http://community.livejournal.com/comment_fic/profile?mode=fullprofile)[**comment_fic**](http://community.livejournal.com/comment_fic) prompt: _SPN, Sam/Dean, accidentally watching porn together. (first time fic for bonus points!)_ to finish the last thousand or so words.
> 
> Thanks to [](http://cathexys.dreamwidth.org/profile?mode=fullprofile)[**cathexys**](http://cathexys.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://treewishes.dreamwidth.org/profile?mode=fullprofile)[**treewishes**](http://treewishes.dreamwidth.org/) for taking a look at an incomplete draft. I cannot possibly thank [](http://casspeach.dreamwdith.org/profile?mode=fullprofile)[**casspeach**](http://casspeach.dreamwidth.org/) enough. She betas, cheerleads, holds my hand, and just is basically my lifeline when I'm writing.

The only warning Sam had was the rattle of key in lock, and so his heart was pounding when the front door finally opened to reveal Dean, who looked a little worse for the wear. Sam slid the remote under his thigh and tried to look engrossed in the textbook covering his lap, but he could tell by the way Dean's eyes narrowed that he'd failed at casual. His face already felt hot, but the heat intensified as Dean kicked the door shut behind him and dropped his duffel on the floor, staring at Sam the whole time, and Sam was pretty sure he was busted.

"You look like shit," Sam said, trying to derail the awkward conversation before it even got started. "Where's Dad?"

"Got a call from Caleb about a ghost in Bend, so he dropped me off. Figures he can make it there before nightfall." Dean's gaze traveled around the room and Sam's stomach knotted. He was so totally screwed.

He just nodded, though, and pretended to turn his attention back to his homework, determinedly not looking anywhere near the television and VCR. Not looking at Dean, either, which was the really hard part. Behind him there was the sound of the refrigerator opening and closing, the cap being popped off a bottle of beer, Dean's boots hitting the floor one by one, and then Dean propped one hip against the back of the couch and said, "Where's the remote? I wanna watch TV."

"Kinda busy here," Sam said, barely glancing up, ignoring the way the position put Dean's crotch exactly at his eye level. "I have a test first thing tomorrow morning." Dean was still looking like he was waiting for the remote. Maybe if Sam started an argument, he could get Dean to forget about the television. "Anyway, why are you here instead of headed to Bend with Dad? I don't exactly need a babysitter."

Dean didn't take the bait. "Nah, I know that. Actually, I kind of fucked up my shoulder. Won't be much use on a hunt, not for a couple days at least."

Sam's head snapped up and he looked around at Dean, who didn't meet his eyes. "Shit. Are you okay?" Any other time, he would've been up and off the couch, needing to check on Dean for himself. Now, though, there was no way in hell he could even move his book until Dean left the room and he could get his jeans fastened again.

"I'm fine, _Samantha_," Dean said, rolling his eyes. "Just dislocated it is all. Dad popped it back in." He pivoted and swung his legs over the back of the couch, leaning on what Sam assumed was his good arm and landing on his ass right next to Sam, feet up on the coffee table. It was cool in that way that only Dean could pull off, and it made Sam kind of hate him sometimes. When it wasn't making Sam hard. Or maybe especially when it was making him hard; he wasn't sure.

Dean propped his beer against his thigh and held out a hand toward Sam, grinning. "So how about you hand over the remote and let me enjoy my recuperation, bitch?"

Sam adjusted his textbook. "Should you even be drinking? I mean, you took something for the pain, right?" Now that he was closer, he could see that Dean's pupils were blown wide and his relaxed smile was maybe a little too relaxed. "Dean?"

"If you were really worried about me," Dean said, shifting like he was going to lever himself up off the couch, "you'd give me the remote instead of making me stand up again to turn on the TV."

At Sam's squawk of protest—which hadn't even come out as an actual word, much to Sam's embarrassment—Dean stopped, and then the narrow-eyed look was back. "I'm starting to think," Dean said slowly, sounding like it was just now occurring to him, "that maybe you don't want me to see what you were watching." There was a beat as Sam sat there, trying to figure out how to respond to that, and then Dean smiled one of his wide, ‘gotcha!' smiles, knocked back the last swallow of his beer, and said, "It's not like it's some big secret you were spanking the monkey when I got home, dude. Share the porn, already."

And that was just great; all Sam needed was to get stuck watching porn with his brother. The brother he was watching porn to avoid thinking about, because if there was one thing the Winchester family did well it was be totally fucked-up. "You really don't want to see it," Sam said.

The couch dipped beside him as Dean went to stand for real this time, his left arm held protectively across his chest. "Dean, Jesus!" Sam reached out and tugged on Dean's shirttail, pulling him back. "Fine, just. Don't blame me if, you know, it grosses you out or something." Fishing the remote out from under his leg, he turned on the television and then started the tape playing.

He couldn't watch the screen, and he didn't want to see the expression on Dean's face when Dean realized he was watching gay porn, so Sam let his head fall back against the cushions and stared at the ceiling. The really pathetic part was that he didn't even _have_ to look to know what was going on; he'd watched the tape enough times over the weekend that he knew just by the sounds. Despite his embarrassment, and Dean's presence, and, well, despite _everything_, his dick was reminding him that this was the incredibly hot scene with the wet, sloppy blowjobs. He could feel his face heat up, and he wasn't sure if it was from shame or from being so turned on that he was just about willing to hump his chem textbook if it meant he'd get off.

At the first huff of laughter from Dean, Sam's jaw clenched. Laughter was better than anger or disgust, at least.

"Jeez, Sammy, you had me worried," Dean said, and it was probably Sam's imagination, but he sounded a little breathless. "I thought it was going to be, like, horses or torture or...or _little kids_ or something, the way you were acting all afraid to let me to see it."

"What?!" He stared at Dean, who was looking back perfectly calmly, like he hadn't just said he'd seriously thought Sam might be into kiddy porn.

Dean gave a one-shouldered shrug. "You were so sure I was going to freak, and I couldn't think of anything else fucked up enough."

And Sam couldn't say what he wanted to, which was that he thought it was plenty fucked up to watch gay porn and think about your brother, to fantasize about fucking him and sucking him, so he just said, "It's _gay porn_, Dean."

"Yeah, I got that, Einstein. The extra dicks and lack of pussy clued me in, thanks." Then the bastard just settled in and started watching in earnest, and Sam looked away again, deciding that maybe Dean getting into the gay porn was worse than him being grossed out by it. Dean, apparently oblivious to Sam's discomfort, said, "Where'd you get this, anyway? They got a new section at Blockbuster I should know about?"

Sam steadfastly ignored the flashes of movement he could see out of the corner of his eye. He told himself he didn't want to know what Dean was doing. "You know the adult store down on Third? They've got video rentals."

"Seriously, Sammy?" Dean almost sounded impressed. "You just walked in, took a spin through the butt-pirate aisle, and came home with this?"

"Jesus, could you be more offensive?" Sam said, shocked into turning his head and looking at Dean, which he realized was a mistake even as he was doing it. Dean had slouched down and was pressing the heel of his hand against his fly, his lower lip between his teeth, and when he caught Sam looking, he flicked open the button of his jeans and started tugging the zipper down.

Sam looked away, trying to catch his breath. Trying _not_ to let on that Dean was getting to him.

"Probably," Dean answered, like it had actually been a question, and Sam could hear the smile in his voice. "If I tried." He was silent for a few seconds, and then he said, "Oh, hey! That's easier than it looks, if you know the trick."

Sam wasn't sure if he should believe what Dean was implying—that Dean had enough personal experience with cocksucking to know how to deep-throat—but he'd never been very good at not letting his curiosity get the better of him. "Oh, really?" he said, trying to sound casual, keeping his attention focused on the television, where a kind of generic-looking dark-haired guy was swallowing the improbable length of a hot blond's dick like it was easy. "And what's the trick?"

Dean sounded honestly regretful as he said, "I dunno, Sammy, I'm not sure you're big enough to know something like that."

It was more than Sam could take. Since Dean got home, he'd done nothing but push Sam, trying for God knows what kind of reaction—probably terminal embarrassment. Well, if Dean wanted a reaction, he was going to get one. Sam shoved the book off his lap and pushed the front of his briefs down a little further, until the elastic slipped behind his balls and held. He was still hard, hadn't _stopped_ being hard since before Dean walked in the door, and he wasn't sure he wanted to think about what that meant. The only thing he _was_ sure of was that if they were playing some kind of game of gay chicken, he wasn't going to lose.

"I dunno, Dean," he echoed Dean's words back at him, "I think I'm plenty big enough. What do you think?" He knew that wasn't the way his brother had meant it, but he figured it was about time someone turned the tables on Dean, took his words and twisted them around until they dripped with innuendo and made _him_ blush for a change.

And Sam managed it with only a little bit bravado thrown in, because he'd seen enough porn by now to know that he didn't need to feel insecure about the size of his dick. Still, he could feel his face flushing, and he tried hard not to think about the fact that it was Dean he was jerking off in front of; if he let himself dwell on it, he was going to come right away, and that would just be embarrassing. He stroked himself slowly, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye, his attention caught by the lazy motion of Dean's hand, the slick tease of Dean's dick barely revealed on each downstroke.

Dean let out a surprised-sounding laugh. "No, Sasquatch, I don't think you have anything to worry about," he said.

Then he reached over, knuckles brushing against Sam's thigh, and wrapped his fingers around the remote. Sam's breath caught, his hand automatically tightening on the base of his dick. Dean skimmed through the few minutes of "plot" before the next sex scene, then dropped the remote on the coffee table. When he settled back, his shoulder ended up pressed lightly against Sam's, and when he started jerking himself off again every shift of muscle rippled through Sam's body, too.

Sam spread his legs wider, pushing his hips up and fucking into his fist, letting his denim-covered thigh press against Dean's, and Dean didn't move away. Sam closed his eyes and focused on going slow, on banking the lick of fire that was trailing down his spine until it faded to a low heat. There were hot spots making him tingle everywhere Dean's body touched his, even through Dean's long sleeves and Sam's jeans; Sam couldn't imagine what it would feel like if they were actually skin to skin.

"Maybe," he said, voice low enough that Dean could pretend not to have heard if he wanted, "maybe you could show me that trick."

Dean's rhythm faltered, but Sam refused to open his eyes, clinging to one last shred of plausible deniability. Finally, Dean said, "If you're not old enough to say it, you're not old enough to do it."

Sam thought that had to be the absolute stupidest sentence ever uttered.

He took a deep breath and looked directly at Dean, who was smirking like he'd already won, like Sam had blinked. Well, Sam had news for him. There was no way he was going to miss this opportunity just because he was embarrassed. He'd been thinking about this, about _Dean_, pretty much since he'd figured out what his dick was for. And hell, if Dean was going to make him ask for it anyway, make him put into words what had so far only been a stream of hi-def images that dominated both his dreams and his jerk-off sessions? Well then, he was going to ask for the grand prize.

"I want to fuck you," he said, and it came out steady and deeper than usual, and it wiped the grin right off Dean's face. Dean's eyes closed for a second, and his knuckles whitened around his dick, and Sam kind of thought that had to be really painful but Dean didn't even seem to notice.

"Aw, hell, Sammy." Dean's voice was rough and breathy, and for a second Sam thought Dean was actually pissed at him. Then Dean arched up, lifting his hips and working his jeans and boxers down and off one-handed, and Sam's mouth went dry. He'd wanted this for so long, but he'd never even let himself hope that Dean might want it too.

That thought was still circling around in his head when Dean settled himself down, straddling Sam's lap, his left elbow tucked tight to his side, and Sam caught sight of his blown pupils again. It was the hardest fucking thing Sam had done in his life, but he put his hand in the middle of Dean's chest and held him off; he needed Dean like he needed oxygen, but not if it meant Dean was going to hate him tomorrow. Not if Dean was only doing this because he was high and not thinking straight.

For just an instant there was something on Dean's face, in his eyes, that Sam couldn't quite identify, and then it shifted, became a familiar, cocky expression and Dean said, "You pussying out?"

Sam shook his head, ready to grab the front of Dean's shirt and haul him back if he tried to move away. "What'd you take for your shoulder? Percocet?"

This time he recognized Dean's reaction immediately: annoyance. Dean rolled his eyes, then shifted his hips, his dick sliding up against Sam's, trailing wet heat and making Sam's breath hitch. "Nothing," Dean said. Before Sam could pull himself together enough to argue, Dean continued, "Dad gave me morphine before he popped the shoulder back in, but it wore off a long time ago. That beer I had fuzzed the pain a little, but no way am I impaired or whatever else you're thinking."

Then Dean's good hand was between them, wrapped around both their dicks and stroking, and it felt even better than Sam had imagined it would. He arched up into Dean's grip, settling his hands on Dean's thighs and letting his head fall back against the cushions.

"I've got you, Sammy," Dean said softly. "I'll take care of you." And it was exactly like every other time Dean was there for him, except for how it wasn't. Because this time it meant Dean's hand stripping Sam's dick, his thigh muscles flexing under Sam's hands, and his mouth pressing against Sam's neck, and none of that was like anything else Sam had ever felt before.

It was good. Too good, maybe, because Sam was really close to coming, heat pooling at the base of his spine and lapping at his balls. He wasn't going to be able to hold out much longer, not with Dean right there, the embodiment of every twisted fantasy he'd ever had. "Wait," he said, and, "Don't. Not yet."

"It's okay. We got plenty of time to go again." Dean's hand slowed, but didn't stop. His breath ghosted warm and damp over Sam's skin as he said, "C'mon, come for me, Sam."

Sam did, hips pumping helplessly as he thrust up into Dean's fist.

When he opened his eyes again, Dean was looking at him kind of like Sam had just aced a midterm or maybe taken down a ghost on his own—pleased and proud and something else Sam couldn't quite place. The expression was gone in an instant, though, replaced by an evil grin as Dean wiped his hand on Sam's stomach under his sweatshirt, and the only thing that kept Sam from shoving Dean off his lap was a hyper-awareness of Dean's injured shoulder.

"Fucker," he said instead, tugging his shirts off over his head and using them to mop the mess off his stomach. He kind of hoped now that he'd left finger bruises on Dean's thighs when he'd come.

Dean's grin just got wider. "I thought you wanted to be the fucker, dude, but if you've changed your mind—"

"Shut up. Just." Sam pulled Dean closer and _made_ him shut up, kissing him until they were both breathless, until Dean was grinding against him, hips working in short little jerks, and Sam was hard again.

Dean was the one who eventually pulled back, palm flat against Sam's bare chest and holding him off when Sam tried to follow. Dean's face was flushed, his eyes dark, and Sam would've been happy to keep making out for another hour or six, but when Dean licked kiss-swollen lips and said, "You got any slick?" Sam kind of stopped breathing for a second.

"Yeah." He fumbled between the seat cushion and the arm of the couch, coming up with the bottle of lube he'd bought when he rented the first movie.

"Such a fucking Boy Scout," Dean said against his mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. "You know what you're doing?"

And there was a loaded question if ever Sam had heard one. Yeah, he knew the mechanics of it, had done anatomical research at the library and then applied the theory at home, working slick fingers inside himself in the shower and jerking off with fingertips pressed to his prostate, stroked himself both inside and out until he came hard enough that black and white spots danced in his vision. He'd watched porn with guys doing girls and guys doing guys and even a few with girl-on-girl, but he'd never done any of it with a partner. Not that he'd ever tell Dean that, because admitting he was a virgin would just be asking Dean to give him shit for the rest of his life.

He settled for a lie of omission. "With a guy? I've watched enough to have a pretty good idea," he said, nodding toward the television, where a new pair of guys were making out on a deck chair beside a pool, one straddling the other's lap pretty much the same way Dean was straddling Sam's.

Dean turned his head, looked over his shoulder, and Sam felt the twitch of Dean's dick alongside his own. "Yeah, well," Dean said, looking back at Sam, "in real life it's not as easy as it is in pornos. You go in without any prep or without enough slick? It hurts like a motherfucker." There was an edge to Dean's voice said he was speaking from personal experience.

Sam clenched his teeth, biting back the urge to demand to know who hadn't been careful enough with Dean. He knew better than to say anything, though; Dean got pissed off any time Sam worried about him, or wanted to protect him the way he protected Sam. It was a fight worth having, just not right now, not when it would probably put the brakes on what might be his only chance to have Dean like this.

"Here." Dean took the bottle from him, snapped the cap open and squeezed out a generous amount of lube onto Sam's first two fingers. "It's not that different from doing a girl. You know how you go down on 'em and finger-fuck 'em good first, so they're all wet and ready for your dick?"

Sam swallowed and nodded, even though he really didn't know any of it first-hand. He could picture Dean, though, face buried between some curvy blonde's thighs, making her writhe and come with his fingers deep inside her, and the sound that visual dragged out of him was embarrassingly close to a whimper. He'd have to encourage Dean to bring girls home when Dad wasn't around, because watching that would be a hell of a lot hotter than the crappy porn he'd been renting.

If Dean noticed Sam's reaction, there was no indication of it. He took Sam's wrist, guided his hand back, and continued, "Same idea, but when you're giving it up the ass, you gotta work 'em open first. With some guys, you can get 'em off the first time just doing that, before you even get your dick inside."

Sam pressed his fingers against Dean, who inhaled sharply. "Is this..." Sam started, not really sure how he'd intended to end the sentence. _...all right?_ maybe, or _...what you want?_

"Slow, Sammy, okay?" Dean's voice had gone all low and breathy, and his eyes were half-closed. "Gimme one finger."

It was pretty much a miracle that Sam didn't come again right then.

Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, and then pushed with the tip of his middle finger, feeling resistance turn to slick, yielding heat as he kept going. It was familiar—tight and smooth and hot, the swell of a prostate just _there_ when he curled his finger a little—but completely foreign, too. Dean blew out a breath, eyes closed and body thrumming with tension, and Sam froze.

"Yeah," Dean groaned, halfway between a plea and an order. "Just like that. Fuck. Don't stop."

After that, Sam couldn't have stopped if he'd wanted to.

He slowly worked Dean open, following Dean's breathless instructions more willingly than he'd ever done on a hunt: _easy does it_ and _more slick_ and _gimme another one_. Twisting his wrist, Sam pushed a third finger inside and Dean pushed back like even that wasn't enough, like he was really getting off on it.

"You think you could come like this, just from my fingers?" The words were out before Sam could stop them, and a blush burned its way up his cheeks.

Dean either missed or ignored Sam's embarrassment; either way, Sam was grateful.

"Keep doing what you're doing," Dean said, punctuating his words with a slow roll of his hips that slid Sam's fingers deeper, "and I can pretty much guarantee it. You gotta make up your mind, though, Sammy. You want your dick or your fingers up my ass?"

_Yes_, Sam wanted to say, and _both_ and _everything, Dean, I want everything_, but even with his brain short-circuited by the unexpected reality of Dean half-naked in his lap, dick hard and leaking as he fucked himself open on Sam's fingers, Sam knew those were the kinds of things he wasn't allowed to say. He swallowed and tried to pull together a coherent response, but his reaction hadn't gone unnoticed this time, and now Dean was giving him a slow, filthy smile.

"Or maybe you're angling for more," Dean said, and Sam's heart skipped a beat at the thought that he'd given himself away. Then Dean continued, "Maybe thinking it's not so far from three fingers to four, and from four to a good old-fashioned fist-fuck," and that wasn't at all what Sam had been thinking, wasn't anything that he'd _ever_ thought.

Now he wasn't going to be able to stop thinking it.

He wanted to be pissed off at Dean for doing that to him, for upping the stakes that way, because it wasn't like Sam didn't already spend far too much time on dirty, fucked-up fantasies involving his brother. He couldn't, though—not even when the beginnings of a smug grin told him Dean knew he'd won this round—because Dean was right here with him, touching and being touched, face flushed with exertion and want; they were in this together, and that part felt so right it hurt.

Dean shrugged his good shoulder, smug look replaced by something closer to affection. "Okay, maybe not," he said, giving another one of those hip-rolls like he thought Sam needed a reminder. "So what's it going to be, Sammy? What do you want?"

"You." It was true and it came out of Sam's mouth with no hesitation but also with no thought. "On my dick," he added, like that was what he'd meant all along, and Dean didn't call him on it, just leaned in and sucked on his lower lip and kissed him breathless.

"You got any condoms in that Boy Scout stash of yours?" At Sam's head-shake, Dean fished his wallet out of the tangled pile of his jeans.

Sam's grip on Dean's thigh tightened as Dean rolled the condom on him with a teasingly light touch, their foreheads together and their faces so close that all Sam could see of Dean's expression was the dark smudge of lowered lashes and the glossy cherry-red of kiss-swollen lips. He gave one last twisting thrust, watched those lips part in a surprised gasp, and he suddenly couldn't wait to see how Dean would look with Sam fucking him, making him come.

"C'mon, please," he said, not above begging now as he slid his fingers free and wrapped them, still shiny-slick from the lube, around Dean's dick. One stroke, two—rough and too needy but he didn't care, because: "Wanna be inside you now, Dean; wanna feel you on my dick."

Dean shuddered, panted out a soft 'fuck' against Sam's cheek and shifted forward in Sam's lap. For a second it was awkward, the angles all wrong and both of them trying to adjust, Dean wincing as Sam bumped his injured arm, but then Dean settled against him, lowered himself slow and easy and perfect onto Sam's dick, and Sam thought he might just die from how good it was. And when Dean started to move—rolling his hips in counterpoint to Sam's thrusts, riding Sam's dick like he'd been doing it forever—it got even better, and Sam let it wash over him, all the aching need he'd buried for so long, the need to touch and taste and claim Dean, to mark him as Sam's and Sam's alone.

Sam pressed kisses along Dean's jaw, sucked bruises into the tender skin of his neck, and he let Dean mark him in return, with his voice and his eyes and the weight of his dick in Sam's hand. And when Dean finally lost that perfect rhythm, when his head tipped back and the long column of his neck was bared and vulnerable, when he shook and trembled and striped Sam's hand and chest with his come, he was the most beautiful, most perfect thing Sam had ever seen.

At that moment, there was nothing else Sam wanted in the world. Just this, now and always, him and Dean and no one else, because Dean was everything.

It was that thought that finally brought him up short, and he pushed it away, buried it back where it'd come from, because he'd broken a lot of rules in his life—had no illusions about the fact that he'd break a lot more in the name of the family business—but that was one line he wasn't willing to cross. It was one thing to fuck your brother, to lick the sweat from his skin and feel him clench hot and tight around your dick as he came.

It was something else entirely to fall in love with him.


End file.
